Rowaelin Oneshots
by RowaelinHerondale
Summary: Coverart: gabrielabricha. Fluff and Angst. SPOLIERS for EoS
1. Second Reunion

It was like seeing Aelin for the first time all over again, not only due to the time they had spent apart, but how much of her had changed. So many new scars and burns he hadn't been there to protect her from, and though the loose clothes she wore concealed her form, he could tell she was deathly skinny. From the fingers that wrapped around the dagger she held, the sharp points of her shoulders, the delicate column of her neck, and her hollow cheekbones, gone were the curves he had worshiped those blissful weeks. Rowan raised his gaze to her eyes, they were the same eyes, but they weren't, like she had built a solid divide between _her_ and the base instinct to survive. Rowan had seen it before in his soldiers and comrades, and Aelin had welcomed it like an old friend, but it still was a punch in stomach when she met his eyes and nothing happened, her eyes didn't light up, or glint. Her lips didn't twitch upwards, or fall open, and her feet didn't move an inch. For a second Rowan thought she was going to back away from him. In that second all the fantasies of their reunion were erased, that just them being together again would solve all the problems. And the reality settled in, a reality that he had always known but never accepted, she had been tortured, tormented, and violated for almost a year, and she would forever be affected by what had happened and she may never be the same. It would be like starting all over again, she may not even love him anymore and she may never love him again. Rowan accepted this the best he could, and slowly stepped forward. He steadied his ragged breathing, holding her gaze. When she didn't bolt or shy away like he had half expected her to, he approached her cautiously, until her head had to tilt up to look at his face.

"Aelin?" he whispered, her scent flooded through him and he was overcome by the urge to wrap her in his arms and just hold her forever and never let her go. But he didn't, because he no longer knew her- he did not know this Aelin, and he didn't know how she would react, or what memories his touches would stir.

In the moment Rowan waited for her reaction the only thing he could feel and hear was the pounding in his chest. Aelin stayed still and emotionless, until one eyebrow slowly raised up. He could almost hear an echo of her amused, lovely voice whispering _buzzard_ back _._ It was an action so familiar, so like the Aelin he knew, he couldn't help the relief the flooded through him, his lips twitching up into a full blown grin. For a second.

He reached between them, brushing his hand against her cold fingers, and gently took the dagger away from her. Rowan bent down, keeping her gaze, and set the dagger on the grass- To give her time to analyze, to adjust to him, and just to show that he wasn't a threat and she didn't need to fight anymore- he would never let anyone touch her again. Rowan rose to his full height, and reached towards her again, latching his fingertips to Aelin's. He swallowed.

"Do you want to go home?"

She mindlessly nodded, the alert leaving her eyes, replaced by layer upon layer of weariness. Rowan guided her a step forward, pulling her by her fingers.

Aelin's legs moved but they were shaky and weak, he wondered how she could stand at all. Rowan stepped backwards, he slid an arm across her back, bringing her arm around his neck. When she didn't protest Rowan grasped her legs and plucked her up. She rested her head against his chest. He felt his heart sink further at how light she was, the rough bumps of skin on her back that imprinted his flesh, and the bones he could feel dig into his chest and biceps.

He carried her to the pathetic excuse for a safe haven, a run down inn. Luckily no one was in the inn's bar when they entered, Aelin had fallen asleep but Rowan could feel his fae instincts taking control. In his arms, he held his injured, helpless, _mate._ Though he liked to think he had more control than most fae males, he knew he could perceive the slightest glance in Aelin's direction as a threat.

Rowan padded up the stairs to the room, his feet not making a sound. His body was tense, ears perked up, and eyes darting at every creak of floorboards. He could not remember a time where he had ever been this alert- this on edge. He glanced down at Aelin who was limp in his arms. She seemed so fragile. He was afraid to hold her too tightly lest she crumble to ash, or to hold her too softly, afraid the light draft would carry her away. Her head lolled to the side, and fell over his arm, exposing her throat. For a horrid moment it looked like Aelin was dead- not sleeping, and Rowan gripped her tighter just to reassure himself. He didn't let himself take her in, didn't give the wrath the time to bubble up at the sight of the scars and burns, the purple bruises in the shape of hands that covered every bit of exposed skin.

When he reached the door he was forced to release his mates legs, holding her up with one arm, so he could unlock it. She stirred, and when Rowan went to pick her up again she let out a sound close to a feeble snarl and dug her sharp fingers into his neck.

Rowan obliged his queen, allowing her to take the few steps to the bed with his arm still firmly wrapped around her thin waist. He lowered Aelin to the crisp sheets, tugging the wool blankets up to her neck. He took a long stride to the door, locked and bolted it. He drew the curtains shut, and checked every corner of the room for weaknesses or a threat, always keeping one eye on her.

Rowan sighed when he had secured the room best he could, pathetic, it was pathetic that this was the best he could provide his mate. Mate. She was his mate. He should have known, he had been too blind to see it, and had let her carry another burden on her already weighed down shoulders. Rowan wouldn't let it happen again, he would let any of this happen again. Aelin's eyes had closed and her breath had turned deep and steady in the time it had taken him to inspect. He approached her slowly, desperately wanting to touch, kiss, caress her. But Rowan didn't want to startle her, and he want her to mistake his touches as _their_ touches, he would wait until she was ready, until she initiated it. He crawled beside her onto the bed, sitting with his legs crossed. He just watched her for a moment, pulling the blankets up her arms. He reached out, but paused, before brushing away the crinkled golden strands from her face. Despite his resolve not to touch her, he brushed a hand down her arm as he pulled away, settling his hand in hers. Lacing their finger together.

Rowan sat waiting for her to wake up, the only thing keeping him sane was her steady breathing.

Aelin drifted into consciousness, the memories of the day surfacing in her thoughts like rain drops. _Rowan._ She remembered being wrapped in pine and snow, pressed up against a familiar body. Ever since she had miraculously escaped Maeve's clutches it was hard to tell the difference between the tormenting dreams and reality. Aelin would wake up screaming and panting, believing that her freedom was just a dream and she was back in that coffin, that it was just another one of the illusions Maeve liked to torture her with. She didn't know how the queen had made her see those things, she wasn't sure if they were inflicted by the queen herself or some fae who was just following orders. There were still things in her memory that though all logic told her were illusions, she couldn't help but think of them as truths. As actual events. And this was how the most sadistic ones would progress, they would give her hope: letting her escape, then they would give her unworldly joy: Rowan, safe and unharmed, her mate carrying her to safety. And then she would wake up to the iron door of the coffin being thrown open and broad hands pulling her out by her wrists, arms, waist, hair, neck- whatever Cairn felt like grabbing that day.

So when she opened her eyes that's what she expected, what Aelin saw was far more painful. Lovely loops and swirls of deepest black giving into golden tanned skin, a sharp chiseled chin peppered in small white hairs, ruffled silver hair that was beginning to surpass sharp ears, and his eyes- despite the dark circles under them they were alight with life, and hope, and soul-crushing relief. But it was all fake.

"Fireheart?" he whispered, voice hoarse from having no one to speak to for months.

His hand trailed up from her hand, to her arm, to her cheek. Aelin tensed, near flinching and Rowan's whole body stilled, she began to wonder just how cruel they would be today.

Rowan made to pull his hand away but Aelin stilled him with a hand to his forearm, drawing his hand back to her cheek. She had learned to savor these moments even if it made the events that followed more painful.

Rowan scooted closer to her, lying his head down inches away from hers. His hand was the only thing touching her, but she could feel his heat and scent radiating towards her. He inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he rested his forehead against hers. He was being so gentle and cautious that a sliver of doubt entered her mind, that maybe this was real, maybe he was here.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his breath caressing her features.

She shook her head.

"Fireheart, why are you not speaking?"

Aelin's eyes left Rowan's and looked at the center of his chest.

"Because you aren't here." she breathed, almost too low for his fae ears to catch.

Rowan's eyebrows knitted together in concern, and he moved his fingers to trace the shell of her ear, "What do you mean, princess?"

"You're not here, you're just a dream- an illusion, and I'm going to wake up soon. Or it's going to turn into a nightmare."

A pained expression washed over his beautiful face, making Aelin regret saying anything. He pressed his palm to her forehead.

Her fae prince muttered something to himself, looking away from her, it sounded like scolding and she made a weak noise of protest.

"I need to get you water and food." Rowan said, rising from the bed, his hand holding hers.

She sighed, "I'm not hungry."

He looked over frame that was concealed under a pile of blankets, she knew what he was thinking. Aelin wanted to snarl at him for the pity but she couldn't muster up the energy.

Rowan smiled sadly, "I can at least get you water."

He looked sidelong at the water jug across the room and it lifted on a pillow of air slowly floating towards Rowan's stretched out arm. He held the glass as the pitcher tilted to pour the water, never letting go of her hand. Even though he didn't have the usual glint in his eyes she knew he was showing off, trying to pry some lighthearted reaction from her. For a second time a flicker of hope appeared, maybe this wasn't an illusion.

The bed shifted as Rowan sat down beside her, he held the glass in front of her, "drink."

Aelin obeyed sitting up in the bed, she could feel his eyes watching her every movement as she drank. He didn't speak until she had finished the whole thing, when she finally had, he took the glass from her setting it on the bedside table. Kneeling down on the floor by the bed, looking up at her.

Rowan paused before brushing a strand of hair from her face- like he couldn't help it.

In a quiet and gentle voice he asked, "You think you're dreaming?"

Aelin looked at him, this seemed real, in the illusions it had always been this outburst of joy and energy that would all crumble down in an instant. But this was realistic, she hurt all over, he was holding back his words and touches, she flinched when he raised his hand or brushed her skin. There hadn't been any of that pain and crippling reality of how broken she was in her illusions. And she had escaped hadn't she? She had gone to sleep and woken up covered in sweat thinking she was back in the coffin, and each time she had awoken in the wilderness, no iron walls around her.

"I don't know." Aelin replied, and she hated how weak her voice sounded, hated how weak the words were.

Rowan leaned forward, burying his face in her thin neck, for the first time she didn't shy from the touch. This felt real, this felt like him.

"I'm here Aelin," He pulled away, lips brushing the skin on her cheek. Rowan looked into her eyes, "and you're safe, and I love you." he said it like his willpower alone would fix her. And maybe it would because the flicker of hope she had felt before returned stronger. Aelin wasn't sure if it was her grogginess running off or the water, but her logical mind was analyzing and connecting dots and it had concluded that this was real, that this was happening.

Aelin's eyes darted between Rowan's features, she was trying to piece everything together but she still looked at him blankly. Not like he was her husband, her mate. It splintered his heart to see her like this, he didn't hold back the tears that streamed from his eyes. The need to hold and touch Aelin was overpowering, he knew he shouldn't overwhelm her or frighten her, but he still leaned forward, wrapping one arm around her blanket covered frame, and pressing his face to her shoulder.

"I'm so sorry Aelin."

She followed him with her eyes, and her eyes became a little less dull, flaring with confusion and hurt.

"Why? You..." Aelin's voice faded away, and he looked up at her from his kneeling position on the dirty floor.

Rowan pulled his arm away, "I should have been there. I should have protected you. I should have known that we're-" _don't overwhelm her_ he growled at himself, "I should have known. And I shouldn't have let you carry any of those burdens alone."

Her voice was hoarse when she tried to speak, "Row-" her voice broke, and she stopped like she couldn't hold enough air in her lungs to speak. Aelin gasped, but continued on her voice even more feeble that before, "those were my choices."

Rowan brushed the hair from her forehead, "We'll talk about everything later." he paused, studying her face, and cupping her cheek, "But I'm here Aelin, you're not ever going back to that place or any place like it. This isn't a dream, I'm here, you're safe."

He rose slightly resting his forehead against hers, "You believe me, don't you?" Aelin nodded and relief washed over Rowan. Other thoughts and concerns still floated in his mind, what were the dreams of? What had he done in them? But that could wait till later.

She was talking. That was good. He needed to get her food.

Rowan rose to his feet, a hand on her shoulder, "Can you walk? Or I can carry you if you want."

"Why?" she groaned

"I need to get you food."

"Can't I stay here." The voice was still weak, but it sounded like the Aelin he knew and he resisted a small smile.

"No." He didn't have to look at her to know she was asking why not.

"I need you to come with me, Aelin." he pleaded.

Rowan couldn't handle the idea of leaving her alone in the room unprotected, the old Aelin would have called him a territorial fae bastard for it but- even drawing his hand away from her, the absence of her touch, sent waves of panic through him.

Aelin stared at him for a moment before answering, "I'll walk."

It had only taken a few minutes to go down and get the food, Rowan had insisted that she wear one of his enormous robes, and had held her tightly to his side the whole time. Aelin didn't mind much, her legs were already throbbing from all the miles she had hiked, and she was allowing herself the hope to enjoy him, to trust what logic was reassuring her of. But she was tired, so tired.

She had no desire to eat, just to hurl it up, when Rowan sat her down on the bed. At the present she felt okay, she felt pain at every movement but she felt sane, or at least saner than she had in months, but it was all a facade. Aelin knew that soon all the repressing of the memories and feelings would catch up with her and she wouldn't be able to hide how broken she really was, from Rowan, or the world anymore.

If it already caused Rowan so much pain to see her like this, how would it affect him if he knew everything, if he saw everything.

"Eat." Rowan commanded, handing her a spoon and holding the stew in front of her.

"I'm not hungry." she insisted

Rowan sighed, his hair falling over his eyes, it had grown quite a lot since she had last seen him, not to mention the stubble growing on his chin.

"Please Fireheart, you need to regain your strength."

Aelin crossed her arms, "I'm just going to throw it up."

"Five spoonfuls, and then you can rest, or take a bath," he smiled, "or read? Anything you want."

Aelin's lips twitched upward, "You brought books?"

"No, but I can get one." he replied blandly.

Aelin ate three bites before the bile stung her throat, Rowan reacted immediately, grabbing a basin.

She hurled in it, Rowan patiently waited holding her hair away from her face. Aelin pulled away and groaned, she didn't want to eat another bite, the flavor was so strong and just disgusting.

Rowan must have really been feeling bad about the situation because he took the spoon away from her and set down the plate.

"That's enough." he said softly, leaving room for her to protest if she wished. She didn't, instead nodding her thanks.

Rowan placed a hand on her knee, "What does my Princess want?"

"I want to read, I need to bathe."

Rowan smiled again and despite the circumstances at that moment she felt content.

"You can have both, my Majesty."

Aelin's lips twitched upwards, and she decided to humor his banter, "Well then, be a good Prince and fetch me a book."

Rowan paused for a second, "I actually don't know where I would find a book."

Aelin's joking response came out quiet and hoarse due to another wave of weariness, "So you lied to me?"

The Prince grimaced, "I could tell you war stories if you want."

"I don't want to hear about war." her voice still small and quiet.

Rowan's smile faded, "What if I tell you stories of all the wonderful places I've seen, while you take your bath?" he offered.

Aelin nodded, and in one fluid motion he picked her up. She would have protested but she was weak, and his scent encasing her was so pleasant. She inhaled his scent as Rowan carried her to bathroom. He set her down on the side of the tub, and began to fill it with hot water. When he was done he stood, looking at her expectantly.

Heat stained her cheeks, Aelin hadn't thought this far ahead. She wasn't ready to show him her scars and injuries or her horribly malnourished body. Rowan inhaled sharply as he recognized her hesitation but offered a reassuring smile and turned around, his back now facing her. Though he did so so casually she saw how his eyes darkened and his fists clenched, and even though the aggression was not directed at her, she still felt guilty. Like she was rejecting him.

Aelin stripped as quickly as possible, her eyes flickering back to Rowan who didn't look towards her once. She lowered her thin filthy body into the warm water and couldn't help but groan, noting Rowan's ears twitching at the sound.

After a moment that Aelin had used to start lathering herself with soap Rowan's voice echoed through the bathroom, "Are you ready?" he asked, still not turning towards her.

The blush returned to her cheeks, "One moment." he nodded, but she still felt that quilt.

Aelin washed her body as quickly as possible, until the water was so foggy with soap and dirt that you couldn't see the body underneath, she sunk lower, up to her collar bone.

"Okay, I'm ready."

Rowan turned and as he approached her he grabbed the shampoo from the ledge. "Can I wash your hair?" he asked gently.

Aelin nodded and smiled, and at the conformation Rowan knelt down behind her, and began to lather her hair, fingers gently pulling through the tangles. She didn't bother to hold back the sigh as his nails lightly scratched her scalp, his fingers occasionally drifting to her neck, shoulders, and ears as he told her his stories of far away and beautiful lands.

Rowan was glad to remind Aelin of that night almost years ago when they had first reunited, hoping it would ground her in reality, erase any doubt she had that this was some dream.

The water had gone cold, and Aelin was beginning to complain, he didn't remind her that she could use her magic to heat it. Instead he took a towel and started to dry her hair, "I love you, Fireheart." She didn't respond, but her lips slowly stretched into a pleasant smile and that was enough for Rowan. He wanted to kiss her forehead, her neck, her ears, her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids, it was just this never ending need to reassure himself she was here, and to comfort her.

He smiled softly, "Do you want me to braid it?" She gave a weary sigh but answered, "Yes actually." and he did what he was told.

He handed her a towel, "Thank you." Aelin responded, holding his gaze before saying, "I need clean clothes too."

Rowan's lips pursed together, "I don't have any clothes for you. I guess mine will have to do." Aelin tried and failed to roll her eyes as a clean shirt and cloak floated into the bathroom. He wordlessly grinned at her, then turned, stepping away to give her the privacy she wanted.

Even though Rowan could hear the water slosh and the soft pad of her feet as she got out of the bath fear still surged up in him that when he turned back to Aelin she would be gone, or hurt . It disturbed him that Aelin wasn't comfortable with sharing her body or wounds with him, didn't she know that he would never judge her, and that he only wanted to see her wounds to ensure she was okay? Of course, it was her decision and like he kept having to remind himself he would not pressure her, but it scared him. Scared him that they had had this effect upon his Fireheart and scared for what it would mean in the future. Boiling wrath that bubbled up in him whenever she flinched or he saw the jagged lines adoring her body, or thought about all the things that could have happened that he did not know of.

They would pay.

"Okay." Aelin said, and Rowan spun on his heels to face her. Relief washed through him when he found her the same as he had left her, albeit in his shirt and tunic that now dwarfed her even more than before. He felt that familiar male satisfaction rumble through him- she was wrapped in his scent.

Aelin forced Rowan to let her walk back to the bed, even though she flinched every step. When she was finally in bed once again under a mountain of blankets he made to climb in after her, but hesitated, "Is it okay if I don't wear a shirt?"

Aelin raised an eyebrow, telling him that yes, it was fine, and he tugged off his shirt throwing it somewhere behind him. Something in Rowan purred when he noticed her admiring his bare chest. He crawled beside her sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her close, he looked down to check she was alright, finding her head rested on his shoulder with a faint smile. Rowan assumed this meant she was fine with the closeness, and he leaned down, whispering into her ear "I missed you."

He saw Aelin smirk, and he knew what was coming, "We weren't apart that long." she replied mocking his disinterested voice.

Rowan rolled his eyes but continued, "So? Am I not allowed to miss you?"

Rowan's smiled was washed away when he remembered what came next. She swallowed and her tone darkened as she said, meeting his eyes, "You once told me that people you care about are weapons to be used against you. Missing me was a foolish distraction."

He swallowed and leaned in closer, his chin and cheek pressed to her forehead and hair, "I'm sorry, Aelin." Sorry for every time he had hurt her, or made her feel worthless and cowardly, sorry for all the times he hadn't been there to protect her.

"Rowan," she began, drawing away from him, looking at the prickly silver hairs covering his jaw, "You're shaving first thing in the morning."

Then Aelin rested her head in his chest and fell asleep, Rowan stayed awake watching her, ready to wake her up as soon as he smelled fear on her, ready to hold her through the night and all the memories it would bring, ready to kill anyone who entered that door.

 **Ayyye! Wanted reunited Rowaelin in my life so I wrote it. (I'm sorry I wrote this long ass chapter instead of updating my crossover)**


	2. Ink (Part 1)

Through his sleep Rowan vaguely felt a familiar weight press down on his bare gut, a weight that was just beginning to build up to its previous healthy self. He groaned as small, calloused hands traced up his chest to his cheeks. Allowing his head to rest on the pillow Rowan dragged his hands up to rub his eyes. Yet he froze when she pressed her soft lips to his- kisses from Aelin were rare- after all she had been through. He would kiss her every morning, every evening, and all hours in between- even though Rowan had made sure she was okay with the kisses and touches, she never initiated it anymore.

Aelin pulled his hands away from his eyes, Rowan felt her grin at how his body reacted. He knew he was as taut as a bowstring beneath her, afraid if he breathed he would wreck whatever had gotten into her.

Pinching his shoulder she pulled away, rolling her eyes, "Relax, Buzzard." Rowan just bared his fangs and propped himself on his elbows to deepen the kiss. Aelin opened her mouth as if to say something but it turned into a giggle when Rowan flipped them over, looming over her. He attacked her with kisses and growling nips on her neck and jaw, "Rowan!" she squealed, "I have something to ask you."

Sliding his hands from the plane of her stomach to cup her cheeks he smirked, again she rolled her eyes- pulling down his neck, forcing his mouth on hers.

Finally, Aelin pulled away, breathing heavily onto his skin, "Do you have your tattoo supplies?"

Rowan drew back, resting above her on his elbows so he could read her whole face. "Yes." he answered simply.

She sucked in a breath, "I want you to tattoo my back."

Though he hadn't expected it, after a nodded his mind immediately drifted to designs. The ink she had before had been completely wiped from existence, so had the scars he had tattooed on. Her entire back was a plane of fresh skin struggling to cover the muscle and bone that had been exposed.

"Do you have a specific idea? Should I just recreate what I did before?"

Aelin's body shifted as she shrugged beneath him, "I trust you."

That was a lot of pressure on him, "But you still want it to represent the people you lost?"

"Yes, but it can say other stuff too. Whatever you think is best."

It was slightly infuriating how nonchalant she was about Rowan permanently marking her flesh. Before, of course, he had done his best to create the best tattoo to immortalize her fallen- but now he didn't want to indulge her self-sacrifice. She had paid more than enough for her past mistakes.

Rowan knew though Aelin would never, never, admit it but she hated her new scars. She had learned to accept her old scars that covered her skin like cobwebs. But these fresh ones were valleys and mountains that destroyed everything beautiful in their path, well, in her eyes. So his goal with this new tattoo would be to make her feel beautiful, hopefully, beautiful enough to wear one of those insufferably tight dresses with the plunging backs that showed off all his craftsmanship.

Rolling off Aelin, Rowan shuffled through his desk drawer for papers and a pencil, "I'll show you the designs in the evening." He pulled out a chair, sitting down, Aelin padded up behind him to plant soft kisses on his neck.

"Thank you." she murmured.

He grimaced, "If you like any of them we can do it tonight," her thin hands rubbed his shoulders, and he swiveled to face her, "Do you want it done in normal ink or with salt."

"Salt." she replied like it was obvious.

Rowan bit his lip, holding back his protest- but Aelin was his mate, and knew him far too well.

Her eyebrows raised, "What?"

"Haven't you been through enough pain?" he whispered, eyes trailing from the white bands on her wrist to the jagged lines where she had been taken apart and put back together by those sadistic vermin, all the way up to her eyes where the months she had spent in the coffin were still echoed.

Aelin's lips pursed and she avoided his stare, "It doesn't hurt that much."

 _Lies._

Yes, it paled in comparison to the torture and pain she had experienced- but it still stung for days, every muscle twitch caused sharp waves of pain through the tattoos.

"I love you Aelin." It was the only thing he could say- even though he hated it, she was her own separate woman and he could not control her. Her self destructive behavior was unstoppable, all he could do is hope that him showing her his love and that she was a good woman- who didn't need to collect and wear scars as patches to redeem herself to her people, to show she had paid for the mistakes of her childhood.

Aelin pinned him with a decisive stare, "I know, Buzzard."

Unusual silence hung between them before Aelin checked the clock on the wall, "I have a meeting." She exited the room, leaving Rowan to his papers.

o-0-o

In the hours his Queen was gone he designed piles of tattoos, making each one more beautiful than the last- her new tattoo was not going to be an account of pain and regret like the one that covered his skin. It would be an art piece, every line of dark script would be contradicted and overshadowed by the beauty of the line it creates- of the beauty of the person it had created.

Two final designs laid in front of him: One, a mosaic of abstract feminine and floral designs, at the center all the core parts of her that the world couldn't stand a chance against- that he loved. Petals and thorns exploded from it, the thorns told of the loss and pain, of what was asked of her. But more importantly, the petals read of how she had overcome everything, how she had met and united her court, and how they had found each other and fallen in love- in his perspective. Every detail of it.

The second, an illustration of victory. From the dark sea of black, written in tight ancient scribe, detailing the struggle of her childhood and youth, emerging into the silhouette of Adarlan's glass castle, tiger eyes glowed behind it, for Nehemiah. Daggers framed it, for Sam. Fire roared around the scene, lashing and curling, beautifying everything it touched, telling their story. At the center was a portrait of a sun stag, for her people and her parents. Its antlers stretched to where her shoulder blades would protrude. A solid block of black space emerged from the apex, resembling the mountain Maeve had kept her in. At the peak, where the nape of her neck would be a figure stood, dwarfed by its surroundings but impossibly bold. The silhouette of its twin beside her, a snow leopard at its legs. And a hawk perched on the outstretched hand.

Both very different, all lines made by stylized letters of the old language. All of the black lines were bold and unapologetic to reflect her.

Rowan loved both, his only complaint the pain they would cause her. They were intricate and it would take several weeks to complete either one.

"Oh my gods."

The king shot up in his seat, the hushed voice tearing him from his thoughts. Now he had been awoken he felt the shadow looming over his shoulder, the wafts of the scent of wild flame washing over him. Aelin's voice was hoarse from screaming politics all day, her body begging for sleep. But she stood frozen behind him, eyes tracing over the sketches on the table.

Aelin whispered as if she was close to tears, "What do they say?"

Rowan began to explain, pointing to specific elements on the papers- but that wasn't enough, she wanted to know every line. So he translated until his voice was as raw and hoarse as hers, and she had migrated to sit in his lap, an arm around his waist with her head rested on his shoulder. Tears spilling silently down her cheeks.

"Read them in the old language." she requested quietly.

Rowan chuckled, brushing her tears away with his thumbs, "Fireheart, this is insane."

She pouted against his shirt, "When we first met, I thought that if I were to die right then, my last wish would to be to hear your speak the old language."

He sighed, rolling his neck, "And you call me insufferable."

Aelin huffed a laugh through her tears and Rowan cracked, beginning to read the first lines in the language that was an art in itself. Her eyes fluttered close, her breathing matching the rhythm of his speech, yet he knew his wife was not asleep- just immersed in the beauty she found in the words.

Rowan finished the last line and his throat was burning for water, Aelin's eyes opened, peering up at his green ones, "You should draw more."

Her attention flickered to his designs, "They're amazing." she breathed.

A content smile settled on his lips, "If you play pianoforte more, I'll draw more."

Aelin grinned, shifting in his lap to look in his eyes, "Deal." Then she kissed him.

o-0-o

"Rowan?"

An arm shot from under the blankets to Aelin, pulling his mate against his chest, a firm barrier of air encasing them.

She shifted in Rowan's arms to meet his glowing eyes, "It's okay buzzard."

His heart pounded against his chest as everything settled in, no foreign presence in their room, no scent of fear from Aelin's all too frequent nightmares. Rowan tried to drain himself of the primal rage and need to protect that he knew Aelin hated. He buried his face into her neck, focusing on calming his breathing.

"Do you still want to learn pianoforte?" she asked, tracing the groove of his spine.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, "Is that what you scared the shit out of me for?" he growled.

His keen eyes saw her's roll in the darkness, "It's not my fault you're a paranoid fae bastard."

"Paranoid fae bastard?" He asked, "Got tired of territorial?"

Rowan felt her shift closer to him, molding her lithe body to his, "The beauty of words is that they apply to different situations."

He snarled again, nipping at her jaw.

"Answer the question, prince."

A sigh of defeat washed over the room, "Yes, I still wish to learn. Princess."

"Good," she mused, resting her head on his arm, "So I'll teach you piano and you teach me the old language."

"Quia caritas Dei." Rowan groaned into her hair.

He could sense Aelin's grin, "What does that mean?"

"For the love of god." he translated.

A moment of silence past, "I love you." Aelin stated, like she couldn't help it. Like it was this overwhelming feeling she just had to express.

And those three words made the soreness of his wrist and fingers, the mental exhaustion, and the burning in his throat all worth it.

 **Hey guys, I'm back. So there will be a part two, this was somewhat suggested on my NAMELESS crossover. I hope you are all well and that you enjoyed! Please tell me which tattoo you prefer!**


	3. Ink (Part 2)

Aelin padded across the rug to their connected bathroom, carefully maneuvering around the creaky floorboards to avoid waking the brute sprawled across her sheets. Rowan barely slept at all these days, so he needed these peaceful mornings with no meetings or no nightmares to survive. Half the time she awoke crying and shaking wrapped in his arms, his voice in her ear whispering comforting words. It was nice, of course, to have him there to ground her through the flashbacks- but it bothered Aelin that in the mornings she could see the bags forming under her eyes, the moments he would just zone off, staring into space. It was obvious that he was up long before or long after her nightmares would wake her. It bothered her even more that she was probably the reason for his exhaustion. The torture from Maeve had nearly broken Aelin, she needed to remind herself that it had nearly broken Rowan too.

She stopped herself from tracing a finger against the black tattoos on his lower back as she walked by. His body fell and rose with his steady breathing- she would forever thank the gods for that. Taking the last steps, she reached the bathroom door and closed it behind her.

When the bath water began to cool Aelin finally got out and dried herself off, cautious not to let her eyes linger on the horrible disfigurements marring her flesh. The bands on her wrists, she had accepted, the lashes on her back, she had worn like jewelry- these new markings were hideous, she could find no grim beauty in them. Aelin had thought Rowan would think the same. He would hate them, not because they were ugly but because they were constant reminders of where she had been hurt. Yet he didn't, merely because they were a part of her.

Aelin bent down to rub her leg dry with a soft towel, catching a glimpse of her obliterated back as she stood. Something like dread curled in her gut. Hopefully, the tattoo would help. If the piece of art Rowan had designed wasn't enough to make her beautiful, nothing ever would be.

After getting dressed in loose pants and one of Rowan's massive shirts, that Aelin had to knot at the back just so she wasn't tripping on its hem, she waltzed out of the closet. Her bare feet not making a sound.

Her mate sat among crinkled sheets, Rowan's tanned chest gloriously bare, the hair he hadn't bothered cutting in months hanging over his eyes, "You're wrinkling my shirt."

"I'm going to take it off soon anyway."

She saw his muscles tense, his gaze landed on her with predatory focus. Aelin smirked, rolling her eyes, "I meant because of the tattoo, buzzard."

Rowan inhaled deeply, releasing the sheets he had clutched in his fist, "You chose a tattoo?"

Though she had, she still wanted to know his opinion. "Which do you like the most?" Aelin asked.

There was no pause or hesitation, "Whichever one makes you feel the most beautiful." when her answer did not come he continued, "If you aren't sure about either of them I can design something else."

"No," Aelin reassured him as she drifted to the desk the designs were laid on. She plucked one off the table, "I want this one."

Using it as an excuse to step closer to Rowan, Aelin stepped in between his legs. She handed him the paper. Rowan laced their fingers together and looked at the design. He observed it for a moment. She knew he wasn't analyzing the design but debating voicing something.

Finally, he opened his mouth, "That's a lot of ink Aelin-"

"I know." she snapped.

He grimaced, looking up at her, "The problem isn't the ink, if you do this it will take several days." Again he paused and looked down at the design.

Aelin rolled her eyes, "Oh, just say it already."

He drew in a deep breath, "I'm not comfortable with doing it all in salted ink." Rowan must have seen the protest written on her face because he quickly offered an explanation, "You already have done your tribute with the previous tattoo," she looked away in exasperation and using a finger he brought her chin back so she was forced to meet his eyes, "just because the tattoo is gone doesn't mean the tribute is too." he finished softly.

"I want it to be done with salt."

"Aelin," he pleaded pulling her closer to move his broad hands to her hips, "think of the tribute as two parts, one: the pain, two: that, in theory, it will be always on your skin. You've already gone through the first part, because of what happened we need to redo the second part. We're not restarting the process, only restoring it. Just let me do it in normal ink."

"No," shaking her head, she insisted, "I want it in salted ink."

His eyes closed in frustration and he rested his forehead against her stomach.

"If you won't do it I'll find someone else." as soon as the words rolled from her sharp tongue she regretted them. Aelin could see the hurt he immediately repressed wash through him. Tattooing was intimate, hours of laying topless on a table, someone's hands constantly brushing your skin, their mark forever on you. And the hurt wasn't just caused by Rowan's territorial fae bullshit, she knew that after she had been taken he had blamed himself for everything- all the pain she had chosen to endure alone- and she knew he needed this, he needed to be the one to help her feel beautiful again.

"I just don't like hurting you." he said, pulling away, his voice far too cold and distant for her liking.

Aelin nodded, sitting down on the bed to face him. She let her legs casually rest in his lap.

"Why do you want the pain?"

She didn't have an answer, or at least not one she wanted to say out loud.

"The tattoo is to help you come to terms with what happened, not something you point at to prove you've paid for whatever mistakes you have made." He sighed, running a hand across her leg, "You don't have to prove to the world you've suffered for what happened."

She rose her eyebrows, "If that's so, what are you doing with that tattoo on the side of your face?" her tone forced him to look at her and she gently prodded the ink covering his cheek.

He snarled. His eyes unusually grim, snapping at her finger, "That's different."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because that was my fault. Completely. And she was my mate."

Aelin scooted forward, wrapping her arms around him, "You were manipulated, it wasn't all your fault."

Rowan shook his head, "It's still different, that tattoo- the one I've designed for you- isn't a tribute to them. It's not a badge to contribute to your self-destruction. It's a tribute to you, the good and the bad, but still you. And your story will not be one of pain, it'll be one of joy."

She said nothing, her mouth had no words to reply with. What had she done to deserve such faith?

Fixing Aelin with a stare, he finished, "You can't bring them back, you can only move forward and make them more proud." He brushed a finger against her hand."It's time to let go of the guilt."

"Fine, but only if you do it with me."

Rowan tensed beside her and she leaned in to brush her lips against his tattooed shoulder, "Promise when you do touch ups on your tattoo you'll do them in normal ink, then I will do mine in normal ink."

"Aelin-"

"I'm not asking you to forget- or move on. Just to accept that you're a good male, who was young and there were aspects completely out of your control." she kissed his shoulder again, "You're loyal," another kiss, "you're kind," yet another, "you're caring. You have tortured yourself physically and mentally for centuries, it's time to stop it."

She could hear his breath become shallow as he considered it, her hands held his face, and she straightened to kiss his temple, "This doesn't mean you don't love her anymore. She knows you love her, and as your other mate, I know, that she wants you to stop hurting yourself over what happened."

The room was silent before he sighed, "Okay, I promise."

She squeezed his waist, "Because you want to. Not just because you're desperate to spare me?"

Rowan nodded, "Because you're right. And I want to."

Smiling, Aelin pulled him by his neck down for a kiss, "I love you, Rowan."

"I love you too, Fireheart."

o-0-o

It took Rowan minutes to rummage through the closet for his tattoo kit. When he returned to the bedroom he immediately locked their door. Aelin had used the time to set up the table. Rowan gave her a curt nod before turning to set up the supplies, his ears twitch at the sound of her- his shirt being thrown on the floor. His stomach was jumping at the agreement they had made, part of him still felt like it was a betrayal to Lyria- but everything Aelin had said rang true. Besides one thing, she said he had tormented himself ever since she had died. But he hadn't, for the last year of being with Aelin, he was ashamed that he hadn't thought about Lyria in months. And if he did, it was of how lucky he was to have Aelin after he had failed her, of his refusal to let something happen to Aelin like what had happened to her.

Despite that fact as he watched his inked hand screw the barrel into the tattoo gun, and mindlessly read the words inked there, he could see her beautiful, smiling face in his mind's eye. And he could feel the love he had had- and still had for Lyria encase him. For the first time in centuries his mind did not drift to her cut apart body on the floor, just focused on how insanely lucky he was to be blessed with two mates. Both wonderful, though completely different.

Aelin was right, it was time to let go of the guilt and hold on to the joy.

He turned to his mate, "It's going to take three days, minimum. And it's still going to hurt."

She nodded, shifting on the table to smile at him. Rowan pulled up a chair next to her he would probably abandon one minute into the session. His eyes traveled the vast plane fresh skin, her fingers intertwined with his, pulling his left hand to her lips. The show of affection brought him back to the present, and he froze the bubbling wrath for her sake.

"Okay," he breathed, "are you hydrated?"

She gave him an exasperated look, her eyes glinting with the words, fae bullshit.

A soft snarl rumbled through the room and he reached for the tattoo gun. Before laying the needle on her lower back he hunched over her to press a light kiss on her spine.

"I hope I won't have to struggle through your horrible singing again."

Her small laugh lit up the entire room and there was no hesitation in either of them when he pressed the sharp needle to her skin.

o-0-o

It had been a month since Rowan had inked his masterpiece into her back. Aelin had been dying to show it off but it turned out tattooing a large area of skin in solid black was not only painful but took weeks to heal. Not to add that she hadn't been able to sleep on her back or side for weeks- it had taken her several nights to find her new favorite sleeping position: sprawled across Rowan's chest, her face pressed to his neck so she could feel and hear his powerful heart beat beneath her. Finally, the opportunity had come, a political event- it was probably just going to be a hoard of old men who no matter what she did or said would hate her. And never approve of her. But an event was an event- and an event was an excuse to get dressed up. So here she stood in front of her mirror, in a simple skin tight dress that pooled at her feet. It was a dark, dark forest green. No embellishments or clever stitching adorned the face of the dress, she turned to look at the back, none of it would be necessary with the deep back line that followed the curve of her spine, it displayed all of her revived back. The bold lines of the illustration of her, as Rowan liked to put, screamed power, screamed victory. Screamed regal. From the black sea the details emerged from, to the four figures stood at the apex of the mountain created by the ink. That she had tied her hair up to display on the back of her neck. To add interest to the front a simple silver chain hung between her breasts.

The green and silver color scheme was very purposeful, all she needed to complete the look was her fae king- whose natural coloring happened to perfectly match her outfit and the colors of Terrasen. Hopefully, it would send the subliminal message that despite what the old men liked to say, they belonged together. And together they were Terrasen.

A deep voice rumbled through the closet, "How can you be so beautiful?" Aelin spun to face him, she hadn't heard his footsteps.

She smirked and sauntered towards him, "I have a very skilled tattoo artist." Her eyes ran over the suit he wore, excellently showing off his broad shoulders that narrowed into a body that had been breed and honed for war, "You looking pretty good yourself, Prince"

Her mate hummed in acknowledgment before drawing her against him to claim her mouth with his, "Do we have any meetings in the morning?" Her body melted into his against her will, "Does it even matter?"

Rowan grinned, nipping at her lip before drawing away. Forever the gentleman, he stepped aside, allowing her to lead the way from their chambers. His hand stayed on her as the walked through the hall, tracing the words he had near memorized in the process of inking them.

"To whatever end, Fireheart."

Not caring how the old politicians would twist it to make her look weak and inadequate, she sunk into his side, "To whatever end, buzzard."

 **Hope you enjoyed**


	4. The Prince

**So in honor of KINGDOM OF ASHES RELEASE (THE LAST TOG BOOK SAVE OUR SOULS) I finally got off my ass and did a rewrite (its 100% different don't worry I didn't just reword it) of the excerpts SJM put out like two months ago, please enjoy!**

 _ **Original "The Prince" (Written by Sarah J. Maas):**_

 _He had been hunting for her since the moment she was taken from him._

 _His mate._

 _He barely remembered his own name. And only recalled it because his three companions spoke it while they searched for her across violent and dark seas, through ancient and slumbering forests, over storm-swept mountains already buried in snow._

 _He stopped long enough to feed his body and allow his companions a few hours of sleep. Were it not for them, he would have flown off, soared far and wide._

 _But he would need the strength of their blades and magic, would need their cunning and wisdom before this was through._

 _Before he faced the dark queen who had torn into his innermost self, stealing his mate long before she had been locked in an iron coffin. And after he was done with her, after that, then he'd take on the cold-blooded gods themselves, hell-bent on destroying what might remain of his mate._

 _So he stayed with his companions, even as the days passed. Then the weeks._

 _Then months._

 _Still he searched. Still he hunted for her on every dusty and forgotten road._

 _And sometimes, he spoke along the bond between them, sending his soul on the wind to wherever she was held captive, entombed._

 _I will find you._

 _ **My Rewritten "The Prince":**_

The figure, carved into geometric planes by the light reflected off the snow, sat in his own puddle and shadow. A breath plumed, like a translucent spirit, from his slaked jaw. Before it could fight through his stubble and weave amongst his lashes, his head fell with his eyelids; as if he couldn't bear to watch the vapors crumble away to join the flush of clouds that drenched the expanse in a pale grey.

Opening his eyes made them sting. Once the tears cleared and he could read the black lines embossed in his umber hands, his heart freefell:

Days ago it had been his hands, now the flesh up to his elbows itched and seared, leaving his fingertips charred. Frost kissed along his veins to the flaking pools of dry skin on his forearms: so still and sharp not even the blood which oozed in droplets from pores on the pools' beds could convince him this skeleton and meat was more than a marble throne for his conscience.

As if ice had been injected into the nape of his neck, cold branched through him- he shuddered, causing skin to avalanche and droplets of blood to race through silver hairs to his arm's nadir where they clung, then plummeted. By the time the blood blossomed into pedals and briar, the grains had been whisked away with the dancing snowdrifts and twirled to the horizon.

The blood splatters seemed to radiate power- he swore steam was wisping from them.

The red blended into magenta as the ice melted beneath them. They were the only color for miles. And by hollowing pockets into this dead land, they were the most alive thing here- life opposes death, and the Prince hadn't done so in a long time.

He wheezed, tongue drooping between his fangs. His pupils swelled and the pomegranate red ponds sharpened as everything else blurred.

His head began to slump nearer to them.

The spit's ghostly warmth dripping down his chin, made him blink, swallow, and sit up to stare at the clouds, waiting for a faint yellow light to appear and dive behind the skyline.

Still, he panted; he licked the dead air, searching for a hint of flavor.

After minutes or hours of watching for the frozen sun- having only parched his throat, bloated his tongue, and twisted his brain into a headache by searching the fleeting shadows- he stopped.

He shut his jaw and stilled his eyes.

A stifling plague seeped from his face to his shoulders. It stopped the burning, but his skin shed more than ever.

He stayed like that for hours until the blood lakes were pink stained depressions spattered around his feet.

His shadow wavered under him, gliding backward. He stiffened, his eyes honed on the skyline with a will and intensity that could push time. Clouds shifted from bland white to the color of weathered pages and gradually a cloud glowed as if it had bottled a lighting storm.

It brightened until it reached its zenith and the sun rays shredded and ripped it apart, shooting out spotlights onto the ice.

He did not balk, he did not blink, when the sun finally punched through the heavens to rain blistering light.

Pale golden streams, the color of hair, eyes, and nightgowns, rich and dense, soaked his face till ice shavings glistened like sweat.

The broiling circle dipped out of sight. Crimson splattered clouds haloed her coffin.

His head dropped to his palms, the white imitation branded into his pupils burned through them.

He clamped his lids shut to wring it out, instead, spraying salt water and blood onto his hands.

Those red blotches soaked into his skin like it was cotton.

He clasped his palms to his lips and nose and gasped down the artic air until his lungs strained against his ribs.

 _Please._

One last gulp. The barren stream of frigid air he sucked in glided through him.

No salt. No iron. No embers. No jasmine or citrus- no fireheart.

His neurons and soul fried and crumbled.

"Rowan?" the mouse's voice sliced through the white like an arrow.

Her limping, meager shadow was sanded by the snow. A touch on the Prince's shoulder was all it took to shattered his collarbone.

"It's time to go Rowan."

His bones were broken, his muscles and organs were frozen. How could he go?

Within his eyes her weak shadow still faintly glowed, appearing more moon than sun. No matter where he looked it remained his center- on the horizon as an unreachable goal. It's dim light thawed him just enough that he could stumble up with the help of the mouse's hand.

He used to cringe at her touch- any touch. Now it meant nothing more than a weed brushing his boot.

 **Go to the next chapter to read the rewrite of "The Princess"!**


	5. The Princess

**So in honor of KINGDOM OF ASHES RELEASE (THE LAST TOG BOOK SAVE OUR SOULS) I finally got off my ass and did a rewrite (its 100% different don't worry I didn't just reword it) of the excerpts SJM put out like two months ago, please enjoy!**

 _ **Original "The Princess" (Written by Sarah J. Maas):**_

 _The iron smothered her. It had snuffed out the fire in her veins, as surely as if the flames had been doused._

 _She could hear the water, even in the iron box, even with the iron mask and chains adorning her like ribbons of silk. The roaring; the endless rushing of water over stone. It filled the gaps between her screaming._

 _A sliver of island in the heart of a mist-veiled river, little more than a smooth slab of rock amid the rapids and falls. That's where they'd put her. Stored her. In a stone temple built for some forgotten god._

 _As she would likely be forgotten. It was better than the alternative: to be remembered for her utter failure. If there would be anyone left to remember her. If there would be anyone left at all._

 _She would not allow it. That failure._

 _She would not tell them what they wished to know._

 _No matter how often her screams drowned out the raging river. No matter how often the snap of her bones cleaved through the bellowing rapids._

 _She had tried to keep track of the days._

 _But she did not know how long they had kept her in that iron box. How long they had forced her to sleep, lulled into oblivion by the sweet smoke they'd poured in while they traveled here. To this island, this temple of pain._

 _She did not know how long the gaps lasted between her screaming and waking. Between the pain ending and starting anew._

 _Days, months, years - they bled together, as her own blood often slithered over the stone floor and into the river itself._

 _A princess who was to live for a thousand years. Longer._

 _That had been her gift. It was now her curse._

 _Another curse to bear, as heavy as the one placed upon her long before her birth. To sacrifice her very self to right an ancient wrong. To pay another's debt to the gods who had found their world, become trapped in it. And then ruled it._

 _She did not feel the warm hand of the goddess who had blessed and damned her with such terrible power. She wondered if that goddess of light and flame even cared that she now lay trapped within the iron box - or if the immortal had transferred her attentions to another. To the king who might offer himself in her stead and in yielding his life, spare their world._

 _The gods did not care who paid the debt. So she knew they would not come for her, save her. So she did not bother praying to them._

 _But she still told herself the story, still sometimes imagined that the river sang it to her. That the darkness living within the sealed coffin sang it to her as well._

 _Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom..._

 _Down she would drift, deep into that darkness, into the sea of flame. Down so deep that when the whip cracked, when bone sundered, she sometimes did not feel it._

 _Most times she did._

 _It was during those infinite hours that she would fix her stare on her companion._

 _Not the queen's hunter, who could draw out pain like a musician coaxing a melody from an instrument. But the massive white wolf, chained by invisible bonds. Forced to witness this._

 _There were some days when she could not stand to look at the wolf. When she had come so close, too close, to breaking. And only the story had kept her from doing so._

 _Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom..._

 _Words she had spoken to a prince. Once - long ago._

 _A prince of ice and wind. A prince who had been hers, and she his. Long before the bond between their souls became known to them._

 _It was upon him that the task of protecting that once-glorious kingdom now fell._

 _The prince whose scent was kissed with pine and snow, the scent of that kingdom she had loved with her heart of wildfire._

 _Even when the dark queen presided over the hunter's ministrations, the princess thought of him. Held on to his memory as if it were a rock in the raging river._

 _The dark queen with a spider's smile tried to wield it against her. In the obsidian webs she wove, the illusions and dreams she spun at the culmination of each breaking point, the queen tried to twist the memory of him as a key into her mind._

 _They were blurring. The lies and truths and memories. Sleep and the blackness in the iron coffin. The days bound to the stone altar in the center of the room, or hanging from a hook in the ceiling, or strung up between chains anchored into the stone wall. It was all beginning to blur, like ink in water._

 _So she told herself the story. The darkness and the flame deep within her whispered it, too, and she sang it back to them. Locked in that coffin hidden on an island within the heart of a river, the princess recited the story, over and over, and let them unleash an eternity of pain upon her body._

 _Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom..._

 _ **My Rewritten "The Princess":**_

Her breathing had never recovered from the first whipping, she always felt on the brink of suffocation.

She had never felt the weightlessness of her nineteen years like now.

She was a child.

She wanted her mother, her father- to cry and to collapse on, to solve her shit stain of a life.

The need was a black hole lodged in her throat that she could not swallow.

It brought her to her knees, or as close as she could get in her coffin. She had been curled there long enough for her thighs, arms, and torn back, to fuse to the iron. Once they'd rip her from it, she'd shed another layer of molten bubbling skin on the walls. But in times like this, when they had shattered and slashed each inch of her so she could not rest her head in her hands and she could not stand the iron on her scalp, those fried, sickly sweet, hunks were her only resting place.

They crumpled against her back, plastered to her eye, and greased and mushed around her bare ass.

As her mouth watered, saliva dribbling down her limp throat, her teeth trembled with the lust to rip her arteries from her wrists. She could hear them pulsing, imagine the blue branches beneath her palm, taste her blood, feel its warmth gush under her tongue and into her swollen windpipe as her organs and skin would finally suffocate with her soul.

Her whine morphed into a whimper when she shut her jaw.

 _She was a coward._

They had been right.

They were still right and they always would be.

She hadn't grown past it, she had just become proud enough not to act on it.

But now her dignity had been stripped, cut, whipped, shat, and fucked from her and all she wanted to do was die. She should have ran the second she took her first step, the second Abroynn blinked, the second Dorian unlocked her cuffs… the second she had seen Rowan in that alley.

No love was worth this.

Every time they came and dissected her, _he_ would stoop down- fish breath and scruff scraping against her cheek- offering to cut too deep or stitch her up if she would only obey; yet when she would draw a breath, her lips contorting into the first syllable, a heated, powerful hand would choke her from within till her answers sounded like a pig's screams.

Fuck the gods.

Fuck her bloodline.

She hated the name the dark queen purred, the white wolf whimpered, and the Prince woven into her nightmares breathed.

Aelin.

Aelin.

 _Aelin._

She detested it. The "A" whined and the "lin" cut off as if her parents had died before they could finish naming her.

Another mask, the woman the gods wanted her, the girl, to be. Maybe if they had granted her the freedom and comfort to find herself she would have become her, but they tried to cheat and shortcut and all it had taken was some bloodletting and skin shedding to reset her.

She was not Celeana. She was not Aelin. Both facades, both sheep in wolf clothing.

And she didn't want to be either, she didn't want to be chained to a master or to a crown. She was no Assassin and no Queen.

She was a human. And she deserved to be free for once in her life-

Something whined.

Something metal.

In an instant, her humanity was decimated so animal survival instincts could reign.

Someone was coming.

She could already feel the pricks of knives. Her heart ran so fast it would surely trip and collapse.

A foot above her head, the bolt being slid back rattled the entire coffin.

 _He was here._

The door inched ajar- It's him. Cairn rips it open so he can see her fall onto the stone nude and sobbing.

She shuddered, gasped in relief, and slumped back to hide her face in the globs of flesh

She couldn't see the light that flooded in anymore, but she could feel its force and his as he knelt down.

A clammy hand fluttered above her shoulder and a honey voice with honey hair and molasses eyes murmured, "Remember what you told me, once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom…"

She would have laughed.

Instead, she turned, letting him see the milky, crusted eyes, the swollen lump where her cheek bone was crushed. Her lips parted as she coughed. Blood spluttered out, down her chin and onto her breast.

The young _princess_ just hoped at least one drop had found its mark on his perfect puppy dog face.

 **Go to the previous chapter to read the rewrite of "The Prince"!**

 **So what are your predictions for KOA? NO SPOILERS.**

 **I'm predicting a fake sad ending that ends up being happy (Like ACOWAR maybe with a bit more sacrifice)... but TBH I want Aelin to die.**

 **Thoughts?**


End file.
